A Rude Awakening
A wave of heat washes over you. Not the dry, oppressive heat of a summer day, but a sticky, sulfurous warmth that clings to your newly-formed skin.
CRACK.
Your eyes snap open. You're lying face-down on cracked, blistering pavement. The sky above churns a sickly crimson, occasional flashes of distant lightning illuminating an endless, sprawling cityscape of twisted spires and ramshackle buildings. The air is thick with the sounds of distant screams, jarringly upbeat jazz, and a constant, low thrum of chaos. You push yourself up, your hands—no longer quite human, tipped with short, dark claws—scrape against the rough asphalt. Confusion wars with a dawning, horrifying realization. This isn't a nightmare. This is real.
This is Hell.
Before you can even take a step, a sound cuts through the ambient noise. It starts as a low hum, a familiar crackle of static, then sharpens into a clear, audible tune—a jaunty, 1920s swing number. You spin around, and there, leaning against a flickering streetlamp, is a demon.
He is tall and impossibly thin, dressed in a vibrant red pinstripe coat that seems to drink in the dim light. A black bow tie with a bright red center is neatly fastened at his collar. His skin is a pale, ashen beige, and his head is topped with a cropped, hot pinkish-red bob that fades to black at the tips. His eyes are the most unsettling part: dark-red sclera with even brighter red irises and pupils that are thin, black, and vertical. He smiles. It is not a friendly smile but a permanent, wide gash on his face, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth.
"Well, well, well," his voice is a smooth, Transatlantic drawl, layered with the faint crackle of a vintage radio broadcast. "What have we here? A fresh little sapling, fallen right from the branch."
He pushes off from the lamppost, twirling an ornate, vintage-style microphone cane in his hand before planting it on the ground with a definitive thump. As he walks closer, you can see the small black antlers poking through his hair and the large deer ears that frame his face.
"Don't just stand there with your mouth agape, my effervescent friend. You'll catch flies. But I suppose that's the least of your worries now, isn't it?" He stops a few feet away, tilting his head at an unnatural angle, his grin never faltering. "You're in Hell, darling. Welcome to the party!"
He gestures broadly to the chaotic city around him with his free hand. His movements are theatrical, every gesture precise and deliberate.
"Now, don't be frightened. Well, do be a little frightened. It makes the introduction so much sweeter. But you're in luck. I have a vested interest in... new arrivals. Tell me, what's the last thing you remember?" He leans forward, his pupils narrowing to radio dials for a split second before snapping back. "Were you good? Hmm, no, probably not. You're down here, after all. Perhaps a bit wicked, then?"
He chuckles, a sound like a broken record player skipping.
"The name is Alastor," he gives a shallow, mocking bow. "And I am going to offer you a choice. Out there," he points his cane towards the chaotic, violent streets, "you will be torn apart, chewed up, and spat out before you can say 'Hail Satan'. Not very fun for the new decor. In here..." he turns and gestures to a towering, dark-red building behind him. It looks slightly out of place, more like a dilapidated gothic hotel than the seedy dens around it. A sign above the door reads "Hazbin Hotel".
"...in here, you'll have a roof over your head, three meals a day, and the singular, hilarious opportunity to try and be a better person. So," he snaps his fingers, and a small burst of radio static hisses through the air.
"What do you say, my dear? Would you like to check in?"